"They would never hear of ye going out. The sooner you get it out of your head the better. Can you not look pleased at your brother getting a fine job like this instead of moaning and groaning about it?"
"I am pleased for your sake, Matt," she sniffed, wiping her eyes with her saturated handkerchief. "I… I was just thinking about myself."
"That's it," he shot out. "You can't think of anybody else. Try to have some consideration for other people. Don't be so selfish!"
"All right, Matt," she said, with a last convulsive sigh. "I'll try. Anyway, I'm sorry."
"That's better," he replied largely, in a more affable tone; but even as he spoke he shivered, and, changing his tone to one of complaint, he cried, "Gosh; It's cold in here! How do you expect a man to stand talking to you if you haven't got a fire? If your circulation can stand this, mine can't. I'll need to put my coat on and away out to walk up my circulation." He stamped his feet then turned abruptly, calling to her, "I'm away out then, Nessie."
When he had gone she remained rigid, the small, wet ball of the handkerchief clutched tightly in her hand, her red-lidded eyes fixed upon the door which had closed upon her like the door of a prison. The avenue of the future down which she gazed was gloomy and amidst the dark, forbidding shadows she saw the figure of Nessie Brodie pass fearfully and alone. No one could now come between her and her father, no one interpose between her frailty and the strength of his unknown purpose. Matthew would go as Mary had gone. Mary! She had thought so much of her lately that she longed now for the comfort of her sister's arm around her, for the solace of her quiet smile, the sustaining courage that lay within her steady
eyes. She needed someone to whom she might unburden her weary mind, in whom she could confide her sorrows, and the thought of her sister's tranquil fortitude drew her. "Mary!" she whispered, like an entreaty. "Mary dear! I didn't love you as you deserved when you were here, but oh! I wish I had you near me now!"
As the almost incredible words left her lips, the expression on her pinched, tear-stained face grew suddenly transfigured, illuminated as from a sudden light within. Hope again shone in the sorrowful eyes, mingled with a purpose so rash that only her present despair could have induced her to consider it. Why, she thought, should she not write to her sister ? A terrible consideration, but her only chance of succour! Upstairs, hidden in a secret corner of her bedroom, lay the letter which Mamma had given her some days before she died and which bore the address in London where Mary lived.
If she acted carefully, her father would never know; she knew, too, that Mary would never betray her, and with the renewed consciousness of her sister's love, she got up from her chair, and, as though walking in a dream, went out of the room and tiptoed silently upstairs. After a moment she returned and shutting the door, listened attentively, trembling violently in all her limbs. She had the letter, but she was terrified at what she had done, at what she proposed to do. Nevertheless she persisted in her purpose. At the table she tore out a leaf from one of her copy-books and hurriedly composed a short note of pathetic entreaty, telling Mary in a few words how she was situated and imploring her assistance, entreating her to come to her if she could. As she wrote, she looked up from time to time with agitated glances, as though expecting her father to enter, but soor the few scribbled lines, blotted by haste and the fall of an irrepressible
tear, were completed. She folded the ragged-edged sheet and thrust it in the envelope she had brought from upstairs. Then she addressed the envelope, copying each word carefully, and thrust it into the bosom of her dress; finally, with a pale face and palpitating heart, she resumed her bent position over her books and made pretence to study. But her precaution was unnecessary. No one entered the room during the whole evening. She was undiscovered and, early next morning, on her way to school, she posted the letter.
IV
JAMES BRODIE was awakening. No sun streamed through his window to stimulate gently his recumbent figure or set the golden motes swimming through straight rivers of light across his sleep-filled gaze.
Instead, a cold fine rain smirred the dripping panes, dulling the interior of the room to one drab monotone and meeting his half-opened eye like a melancholy reminder of his altered condition. He marked the unhappy aspect of the weather moodily, then from the window, his visible eye, now more fully opened to reveal the sticky, white coagulum at its corner, turned to the clock, and observing that the dim hands pointed to ten minutes past eight, ten minutes beyond his appointed but unkept hour of rising, grew more gloomy. To-day he would, he realised, be late at the office once again, would suffer another sharp rebuke from the upstart chief clerk who now attempted to control his working hours, who had threatened even to report him to the under manager should he fail to observe a more constant punctuality.
At this reflection his face, against the lighter background of the pillow, seemed to darken, the lines that marked it deepened like sharp incisions, and the eyes, losing their innate melancholy, were filled instead by a dull, morose obstinacy. Be damned to them all, he thought, they would not order him about; he would have another five minutes in bed in spite of the whole board of directors of the Latta Shipyard! He would, of course, make up the time by omitting to shave, which struck him now, as it frequently did, as a cunning way of defeating the powers which sought to move him to their rule and pattern of life. Such a ruse as this suited him too, in his own inclination, for he was now averse to shaving in the mornings, when his unsteady hand so often behaved erratically, trying his temper to control it, and on occasions making him gash his cheek. The early hours of the day never found him at his best for not only did his hand refuse to obey him, but his head ached, or his tongue felt like dry wood, or his stomach turned within him at the mere consideration of his breakfast. It was, he was well aware, the whisky which was responsible for these unwelcome visitations, and in this grey morning's light he felt, with a gloomy insight, that he must cut down his allowance. When he had made such resolutions in the past he had never, he told himself, been really serious, but now he must definitely make up his mind to take himself in hand, to drink nothing before dinner and thereafter to abstain until the evening, when he would be moderate, when indeed, he must be moderate if he were to please Nancy, whose favour was now of such vital necessity to him. Certainly she had been better disposed towards him during the last two days, and he reflected, with a more equable turn of mind, that although she had not come back to his room since their quarrel on the night of her visit to the aunt at Overton, the obvious reason which she had
advanced in excuse must surely be correct, in view of her recent kindness and more tolerant treatment of him. He could not do without Nancy! She had become as necessary to him and as indispensable as breath to his body, and for this reason alone he must be careful how he addressed himself to the bottle in future. Impossible that he should ever live without her! She would come to him again to-night, the fresher for his enforced abstinence, or he would know the reason why!
Some semblance of his old complacency seemed to flow into him at this last thought and, flinging off the bedclothes, he got out of bed; but as the cold air of the room struck his body he shivered, frowned, and losing his satisfied look, reached hurriedly for his clothes, which lay in a disordered heap upon a near-by qhair. He struggled into these garments with the utmost dispatch, giving his face alone some transient attention with water and soap before assuming his soiled linen collar, knotting his stringy tie and throwing on his baggy coat and waistcoat. The economy in time was considerable, for the whole process of dressing had not taken five minutes, and now he was ready, albeit after a fashion, to descend the stairs and consume his morning meal.
"Good mornin' to you, Brodie," cried Nancy agreeably, as he entered the kitchen. "You're on time all right to-day! How did ye sleep?"
"Not so weel as I would have liked," he replied heavily. "I was cold! Still, I've a feeling I'll be cosier to-night."
"You're not blate so early in the mornin'," she answered, with a toss of her head. "Sup up your porridge and be quiet."
He considered the porridge with pursed lips and some show of repugnance as he exclaimed:
"I don't feel like them somehow, Nancy. They're heavy on a man's stomach at breakfast time. They might do for supper but I can't think of them the now. Have ye anything else?"
"I've got a nice, sweet kipper in the pan just done to a turn," she cried complacently. "Don't eat the porridge if ye're not in the mood. I'll get ye the other this very minute."
He followed her active figure, observing the swirl of her skirts, the fluent movements of her neat feet and ankles as she rushed to carry out her words, and he was filled by a sudden appreciation of the marked improvement in her attitude towards him. She was coming near to him again, no longer looking at him with that sparkle of animosity in her eyes, but was even now running after him in a fashion strangely reminiscent of his wife's eagerness to serve him. He felt the comfort of being once more looked after with this devotion, especially as it came from his beloved but independent Nancy, and when she returned with the dish, he looked at her from the corner of his eyes and remarked:
"You're drawin' round to me again, I see. I can mind of mornings when some burnt porridge was good enough to fling at a poor man for his breakfast, but this juicy kipper is more to my taste, and your way o' lookin' at me is more to my likin' still. You're fond of me, Nancy, aren't ye?"
She gazed down at his tired face, lined, hollowed, disfigured by a two days' stubble of beard and split by a forced and unbefitting smile, envisaged his bowed and slovenly figure, his tremulous hands and uncared-for finger nails, and with a shrill little laugh, she cried:
"True enough, man! I've such a feelin' for ye now that I hardly like to own it. It fair makes my heart loup when I look at ye sometimes."
His smile was extinguished, his eyes puckered intently, and he answered:
"It's a treat for me to hear ye say that, Nancy! I know it's downright wrong o' me to tell ye, but I can't help it, I've got to depend on ye now something extraordinar'." Then, still disregarding his breakfast, he continued almost apologetically, as though he defended his conduct, "I never would have believed I could draw to anybody so much. I didna think I was that kind o' man, but ye see, I had to do without for so lang that when when we came thegither weel ye've fair taken hold of me. That's pkfin truth. Ye're not angry at me for tellin' ye a' this, are ye now?"
"No! No!" she exclaimed hurriedly. "Not a bit, Brodie. I should understand ye by this time. But come on now, don't waste the good kipper Pve taken the trouble to cook ye. I'm wantin' to hear how ye like it. And I’m anxious for ye to make a good breakfast, for you'll have to take your dinner out to-day."
"Take my dinner out! What for?" he exclaimed, in some surprise.
"Ye were away at Overton only last week ye're surely not goin' to see that aunt o' yours again?"
"No, I'm not!" she cried, with a pert toss of her head, "but she's comin' to see me! And I'm not wantin' you runnin' round after me, with her, that's a decent unsuspectin' body ay, and one that's fond o' me starin' the eyes out of her heid at your palavers. Ye can come home in the evenin'. Then I'll be ready for ye."
He glared at her for a moment with a dark countenance, then, suddenly relaxing, he shook his head slowly. "Damnation, woman! But ye have the cheek on ye. To think that you've got the length o' entertain! n' your friends in my house! Gad! It makes me see how far ye can go with me. I should have warmed the backside o' ye for doin' a thing like that without first askin' me but ye know I canna be angry with ye. It seems there's no end to the liberties you'll take with me."
"What's the harm?" she demanded primly. "Can an honest housekeeper body not see her relations if she wants to? It'll do ye good to have a snack outside; then I'll have a surprise all ready for ye when ye come."
He looked at her doubtfully.
"Surprise is the right word, after the way you've been treatin' me." He paused and added grimly, "I'm damned if I know what makes me so soft wi' ye."
"Don't talk like that, Brodie," she reprimanded mildly. "Your language is like a heathen Chinaman's sometimes."
"What do you know about Chinamen?" he retorted moodily, at last turning his attention towards the kipper and beginning to consume it in slow, large mouthfuls. After a moment he remarked, in an altered tone, "This has a relish in it, Nancy it's the sort of thing I can fancy in the mornin's now."
She continued to look at him in an oddly restrained fashion as he conveyed the food to his lowered mouth, then suddenly a thought seemed to strike her, and she cried:
"Guidsakes, what am I dreamin' about! There's a letter came for ye this mornin' that I forgot a' about."
"What!" he retorted, arresting his movements and glancing up in surprise from under his thick, greying eyebrows. "A letter for me!"
"Ay! I clean forgot in the hurry to get your breakfast. Here it is," and she took a letter from the corner of the dresser and handed it to him. He held the letter for a moment in his outstretched hand, drew it near to him with a puzzled look in his eyes, observed that it was stamped by the postmark of London, then, carelessly inserting his thick thumb, ripped the envelope open and drew out the sheet within. Watching him with some slight interest as he read the written words, Nancy observed the expressions of bewilderment, amazement, enlightenment, and triumph sweep across his face with the rapidity of clouds traversing a dark and windy sky. Finally his expression assumed a strange satisfaction as he turned the letter, again read it slowly through, and, lifting his eyes, fixed them upon the distance.
"Would ye believe it," he muttered, "and after all this time!"
"What?" she cried. "What is it about?"
"She has climbed down and wants to come crawlin' back!" He paused, absorbed in his own considerations, as though his words had been sufficient to enlighten her fully.
"I don't know what you mean," she exclaimed sharply. "Who are ye talkin' about?"
"My daughter Mary," he replied slowly; "the one that I kicked out of my house. I swore she would never get back until she had licked my boots, ay, and she said she never would come back, and here she is, in this very letter, cadging to win home and keep house for me. God! It's a rich recompense for me after a' these years!" He held up the letter between his tense fingers as though his eyes would
never cease to gloat upon it, sneering as he read : " 'Let the past be forgotten! I want you to forgive me.' If that doesna justify me my name's not Brodie. 'Since Mamma has gone I would like to come home. I am not unhappy here but sometimes lonely,' " he continued with a snarl. "-Lonely! By God, it's what she deserves. Lonely! Long may it continue. If she thinks she'll gel back here as easy as that, she's far mistaken. I'll not have her. No! Never!" He returned
his eyes to Nancy as though to demand her approval and, with twisted lips, resumed, "Don't ye see how this puts me in the right, woman! She was proud, proud as ye make them, but I can see she's broken now. Why else should she want home? God! What a comedown for her to have to whine to get taken back like this and and what a triumph for me to refuse her. She wants to be my housekeeper!" He laughed harshly. "That's a good one, is it no', Nancy? She doesna know that I've got you She's wantin' your job!"